


Unfinished Symphony

by Riken



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, University AU?, musician au, tags are updated as story progresses (if story progresses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riken/pseuds/Riken
Summary: basically mcyt/dsmp characters get thrown into an arts academy and there's monsters involved(my will to write is not very high right now)
Kudos: 3





	Unfinished Symphony

It’s a balmy evening when he throws the windows open, mind as scattered as the loose leaf papers that dapple the polished wooden floor. The open night sky yawns at him, an infinite abyss, and he  _ yells _ into the empty space, voice ringing. The moon blankly stares back at him. Wilbur collapses onto the nearest chair, kicking up a spray of half written compositions.

One lands on his chest. He picks it up gingerly, views the chord progressions.  _ It’s not good enough _ , a small part of him whispers. The page is half crumpled. There’s a red ink blot near his thumb. He shifts his fingers and sees hastily made annotations made in a handwriting that does not belong to him.

Tommy, the new student in the conservatory, has an uncanny knack of having what Wilbur does not. Likewise, Wilbur has the talents that Tommy does not. 

The teachers say they would make a good team.

Wilbur believes otherwise. He doesn’t want to work with a firework primed to explode at any moment. Tommy is too spontaneous, too wild. Maybe he dislikes the way Tommy is like a breath of fresh air in the conservatory— all outgoing, unrestrained. He isn’t limited to the notes and annotations on a page the way Wilbur is chained to them.

_ You need to take a break _ , the annotation says.

Wilbur tosses the paper to the side.

Burnout is a creative’s worst nightmare. Burnout equates to failure for Wilbur. 

There’s instrument cases neatly lined up against the wall. Wilbur stares at the crisp wallpaper— a sort of floral peach that one would find in an antique store. The whole  _ conservatory _ is like an ancient relic. The gardens weep with flowers and trees that have seen the birth of humanity, probably. The portraits on the hallways are as pretentious as he can expect. There’s one, Sir Billiam, that Wilbur thinks is extremely out of place, though— a man with a stony expression and no sense of false opulence. For some reason, Sir Billiam’s countenance assures Wilbur that  _ something  _ merits his place on the wall of honor— not money, not corruption.

It creeps the hell out of him.

“Are you...going to pick up that violin, dude?”

He startles. At the open doorway stands a man dressed in a button up shirt and slacks, donning a blood red cardigan. The man’s hair blends into the darkness in an unusual swirl of muted pink and the shades of shadows.

“Techno,” Wilbur says.

“Wilbur,” the man replies. “I heard a noise complaint. Actually, no. The noise complaint was from me. Are you alright?”

_ No,  _ he thinks. “Yes,” he responds. “I just feel like I’m being unproductive.”

Techno sighs. “Why are musicians so difficult?”

“Why are writers so difficult?”

“Touche,” Techno amends. He leans off the doorway frame and begins picking up the papers on the floor. “Just because you’re one of the quiet geniuses that gets a lot of flack for not being outgoing doesn’t mean your value is decreased. In fact, those pretentious professors can take their batons and sho—”

“Except for some professors,” Wilbur warns.

Techno sighs. “Except for some professors.” He examines a paper. “Coltrane chord progressions.”

“Don’t remind me,” Wilbur groans, picking up his violin case. “Tommy likes that.”

“I’m sure he does,” Techno vaguely agrees.

The wind whistles and sends another stack of compositions into the air. Techno’s brow scrunches in irritation. “Close the damn window if you’re not going to play.”

“I am,” Wilbur says. He scrubs the resin onto his bow and adjusts the violin into the crook of his shoulder. He can tell his shoulders are too stiff, his wrist too tight. “Don’t say it.”

Techno raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Wasn’t going to. You’re talking to a writer, not a musician.” Which is mildly off topic, because Techno is one of the best people at studying body language.

Wilbur sighs for the trillionth time and plucks at the strings, twisting the tuning pegs. Then, after stalling a little, he plays an unsteady note. It quavers. Techno turns his head away. The note strengthens into a smooth tenor.

Below, a creature keens.


End file.
